First Thing in the Morning
by Bardicsidhe
Summary: [Seto x Tristan x Joey] Seto wakes up alone in someone else’s bed, and finds more than he bargained for when he stumbles across a private moment.


**Title:** First Thing in the Morning  
**Rated:** T  
**Pairing:** Seto/Tristan/Joey  
**Warnings:** Contains slash (male/male), and mention of a three-way relationship. If any of this bothers you, then I suggest you look elsewhere.  
**Disclaimer: **_Yu-Gi-Oh! _And all of its characters are the property of Kazuki Takahashi and 4Kids Entertainment and I receive no profit from this endeavor.  
**Summary:** Seto wakes up alone in someone else's bed, and finds more than he bargained for when he stumbles across a private moment.

* * *

Seto awoke and realized with a flash of cold panic that he was alone. He hadn't intended it that way; had not gone to _bed _in that particular state. He pushed the rumpled covers down and sat up, shivering as chilly air in the small dark bedroom invaded the warm pocket he occupied beneath the sheets. 

When he realized where he was and whose bed he occupied – the brilliant rust-red comforter spoke eloquently of its owner – panic dissolved in a prickle of irritation. He allowed it, simply because the panic was keeping him _here _and anger motivated him _out _of bed.

He'd made it clear the _last _time that he was not fond of these absences without leave. Perhaps even acquiescing to this little thing for the sake of his comfort was too much a measure of control. And oh, _yes_, though he'd only shared this bed and his company a short time, he knew how much Tristan loathed being told what to do.

Well. In a context that didn't involve sex, anyway.

Across the apartment, the microwave bleated a low, long note.

The idea of being abandoned for a lukewarm Danish or a cup of coffee provided enough unpleasant stimuli to get Seto into his shirt and out into the relatively warmer common room. He spied his quarry where it leaned against the counter of the kitchenette. Tristan and Joey looked up at him at the same time, wearing similar expressions of guilty surprise. The former was casually nude, the latter wore a pair of boxer shorts low on his hips. Their shoulders sloped towards one another, like little boys hunched over a science experiment.

Just outside the door of Tristan's bedroom, Seto stilled. He watched them silently from across the expanse of sunny wood floor. Tristan was the first to smile, but it was a façade, a careful gracious veneer that covered…something. Embarrassment? Guilt? "Did we wake you up?" Tristan asked.

"I was already awake," Seto replied. He was not used to feeling awkward. Seto _Kaiba _did not feel 'out of place.' And yet here, he witnessed the intimate moment that did not include him and felt – however briefly – the sting of being unwanted in it. The cool corner of his mind hissed that it was going to happen someday, he was an addition to this relationship and not the necessary core, he was already dancing the edge of unwelcome just by _being _an interloper and _it was going to happen _and he knew that.

Joey was the first to look away. He lifted a steaming bowl from the counter, pushed a fork into the contents, and touched Tristan's arm with his free hand. The bigger brunet shot him a look of – _gratitude?_ – and accepted the bowl he offered.

Seto turned back abruptly and vanished into the bedroom, leaving both men staring at the empty door.

He was slipping on his shoes when Joey appeared in the doorway. "You leavin'?"

Seto looked up, blue eyes frank and outwardly untroubled. "Perhaps you allow yourself a free weekend, but I do have some appointments this afternoon."

"Cancel 'em," Joey suggested with a shrug.

Seto snorted. "I see where Tristan gets his initiative." He reached for his wristwatch on the bedside table, noting from the corner of his eye how still Joey had gone.

"You're mad about somethin." It wasn't a question.

Seto leaned back, drew a slow breath and let it out in a sigh. The blond man knew how to disarm him. They _both _knew how to bring his defenses down. Seto's subordinates anticipated his moods, nothing was said and he was left to himself. Everyone smiled, but the smiles were always laced with caution or worse, vague pity. This point-blank honesty was irritating. He simply didn't know what to _do _with it.

"What _were _you planning to do, if I stayed?" Seto asked, over the buckle of his watch. Joey smiled and as though the smile was a summons Tristan's shadow fell across them both.

"We were gonna teach you how to play Frisbee," Joey explained.

"In the park," Tristan volunteered over Joey's shoulder, holding his bowl to the side in both hands. He leaned down for a mouthful of whatever-it-was, still watching Seto with one eye. Seto blinked at the long ringlets of blond pasta trailing from his fork.

…_Noodles?_

Tristan pursed his lips to draw up the thin pale strands, and turned his head away to save them from witnessing it. Seto didn't realize he'd leaned to see more of Tristan around Joey's shoulder until Joey called his attention back with fingertips on his neck and a hard shiver wormed its way up his spine.

"I…what?" His chin snapped up, blue eyes dark and squeezed with confusion. So far out of his comfort zone. So far removed from anything familiar. He lost more ground every time they pulled that on him.

Joey laughed, echoes absorbed in the lush, small space. Seto read sympathy in the throaty sound. "Damn Tris. He got me up 'bout an hour before y'came out. S'th'first time in…I'unno, _months_ since he's had t'have that in th'mornin."

Even Joey's eyes were laughing. They twinkled eager humor to answer Seto's nonplussed frown. "Ramen. That was ramen noodles." His chin pushed toward the door, indicating Tristan, before he turned back to Seto with a smile split wide enough to flash his canines.

Tristan returned a moment later, empty-handed and to all appearances content. Without a word, he took a place on Seto's other side. Without a word he twisted sideways and drew the older brunet into a kiss with the stroke of his knuckle along Seto's jaw. He tasted of dark spices and salt, and Seto pulled back not long after for the sake of his own resolve.

But somehow, with their presence flanking him, he'd changed his mind.

Seto released the tail of his watchband, which he'd been holding pinched between thumb and forefinger until now. Both wrists dropped to his lap.

"I was jus' tellin him about your thing with noodles in th'mornin, Tris," Joey chuckled. He squeezed the back of Seto's neck. "An' damn, s'almost nine, bud. Not that I'm complainin, but y'might wanna put some friggin pants on."

Seto recognized the embarrassment in Tristan's expression now for what it was ten minutes before, and drew another slow breath. He reached behind Tristan to trail the tips of his fingers down the shallow groove between his shoulderblades. "It does leave you a little vulnerable," Seto added, smiling when the younger brunet hissed with surprise and slid away to rummage through his bureau.

"Tris's gotta have salt after sex," Joey went on amiably, "god knows why, I keep tellin him, considerin he gets a big dose've hot an' salty _anyway,_" Tristan choked and Seto wheeled around to look at Joey, torn from watching Tristan tug on a pair of jeans. Both men stared at the blond. After a few beats of silence Joey shrugged defensively, fixing Tristan with an aggressive glare. "What? S'_true_ man, an' f'ya try an' deny it after y'got my ass _outta bed _this mornin f'r your fuckin _noodles_…"

"I don't do it all the time," Tristan protested weakly.

"Bullshit," Joey shot back, cheerfully as ever. His gaze returned to Seto, who was staring yet, unsure if he should say something or simply bolt. "An' if it's _really _good sex…yanno those little packages of soy sauce y'get from the takeout place?" The thumb and forefinger of each hand mimicked the tiny fine movement of tearing open a sauce packet.

Seto shook his head. Very slowly.

"_Joey_…" Tristan pleaded from his hunch over his sock drawer, voice thick with embarrassment. But there was no stopping him. He must have decided it was harmless and was enjoying himself to the hilt.

"Okay, well, like I was sayin, there's these little packages of sauce that y'can get, tear 'em open and put 'em on stuff. The good kind's real salty and kinda tastes like alcohol. An' if it's _real _good sex, like I said, he puts one of those in it. T'make it _extra _salty."

"Mm," Seto murmured, left without a clear path to an appropriate reaction. Even the cool corner of his mind seemed to cup a hand to its ear, asking 'What? _What?_' like a deaf old man. React? Reaction first required _processing_.

Tristan behind them let out a sharp note of despair and the sock drawer snicked shut. He denied none of it.

"An' yanno what," Joey was saying, as Tristan returned to the bed and flopped on his back, promising dark payback up at Joey with his eyes, "I saw somethin this mornin I ain't never seen b'fore." He leaned closer to Seto, brown eyes nearly orange with mischief in the refraction of light from the doorway. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "You an' I together must be _somethin_ else, 'cause it was a _two-package _mornin."

Joey and Seto continued to look at one another in silence, foreheads nearly brushing, as the words were swallowed up by the soft comforter and Indian rugs. Seto turned away, gaze flickering to Tristan, who smiled up at him in chagrin, admitting the truth without a word. Something undid Seto then, something _twisted_ free and the images that refused to process found an outlet. He hiccupped, swallowed air and curled forward, breaking into genuine, uncontrolled laughter. In a moment or two with startled smiles, Joey and Tristan joined him, and it was several minutes before all three returned to their proper state of mind.

"So I guess the Frisbee game's still on," Joey said.

"On one condition," Seto held up one finger, too relaxed to even make the pretense of a protest.

"What's that?" Tristan asked, rolling off to the other side of the bed for his shoes. He looked up to find Seto smirking in his direction.

"He'll need ramen afterward."


End file.
